The Test
by Ash10
Summary: During the vendetta ride after Morgan's murder, Doc is forced by circumstances to face up to a problem which he realizes can't be handled alone.


This story takes place after Morgan Earp's murder, during the vendetta ride.

As always, feedback is welcome; good or bad, send it along!

The Test

The week following their departure from Tombstone proved unproductive at best - a glimpse of the elusive bunch of Cowboys, Ringo among them plainly visible on his black and white pinto. A tantalizingly near encounter and then gone, vanished into thin air and the rocky jumble of outcroppings, valleys, peaks and dead end canyons of the Chiricahua Mountains.

Frustration, exhaustion and lack of fresh provisions had each of the men at his wit's end. It would take only the slightest of catalysts to send someone over the edge.

Wyatt was no help in the matter whatsoever. His preoccupation with the job at hand left precious scant time for him to dwell on other matters. It wasn't that he was purposely callous to the needs of his men, just single-minded.

"Seems we are at an impasse." Holliday stated the obvious as the posse sat facing yet another sheer canyon bluff, the only way out being the way they'd come in.

"Well tell me something I don't know!" Wyatt removed his hat, slapping it hard against his thigh in disgust. His horse sidestepped, a bit alarmed by the noise and the whack of the Stetson. Rocks loosened by the stallion's hooves skittered down the embankment, raising dust into the dry air, picking up momentum and larger stones as the rocks continued their trip to the bottom of the gully. Rocks and noise raised a small covey of quail that rose haphazardly up into flight, startling all the horses. Holliday's mount reared up onto her hind legs giving Doc reason to swear impressively and loudly. Like the other men, he'd been rather lax in the saddle, his attention elsewhere. From then on he would be more diligent. Landing on his back in the rocks was not the type of diversion he would've enjoyed. Finding all eyes upon him as he got the mare settled back down, he only shrugged.

Holliday felt his pockets vainly looking for a smoke, hoping he might've, just might've overlooked something in previous searches. He'd been out for two days having shared his last few cigars with the men who'd smoked up their fixins' and were hard up for a bit of tobacco.

Being without a smoke was one thing and that was bad enough, but for Holliday there was an absence of something his body missed far more. He hadn't had a drink in 72 hours and every hour was a day to him once the alcohol effects began to wear thin, then wear off. A smoke helped with the nerves part, took off the edge, made it just this side of bearable. Now there was nothing left to moderate the awful feelings he was experiencing, the nerves, the shakes, the stomach cramps, the headache.

Hiding this from Wyatt was easy since the marshal was so preoccupied with the chase. Hiding it from the likes of Creek and Jack was nigh on to impossible. Creek especially thought it his lot to keep an eye out for Holliday who never seemed interested in watching out for himself.

That night the darkness came upon them quickly, wrapping black comfortless arms about the tired miserable men as they sat around a small fire, eating beans out of cans, sipping coffee so weak from reused grounds it was transparent and tasteless; warm was all it was.

Only Creek seemed aware that Holliday was not at the fire. Johnson poured some of the pseudo coffee into a cup and got up to search him out, finding the dentist in the dark, a ways off amid a cluster of small boulders. Wrapped in a blanket, seated on the ground Indian style, Holliday rocked himself in a rhythmic motion - back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, oblivious to anything around him. Back and forth, back and forth, the blanket clutched tightly, swathed cocoon-like around the thin body, head bent low against the heaving chest. Creek backed out the way he'd come, coffee still in hand.

Hurrying to Wyatt he pulled the marshal aside. "Something's wrong with Doc," he whispered.

"Is he sick?"

"I dunno....Yes - maybe....He's not coughing - he's....I dunno. Something's just wrong!"

"What do you want me to do about it, Creek?" Wyatt wasn't exactly annoyed, but vexed that Creek couldn't handle this on his own. Johnson however, was adamant.

"At least check 'im out!" It was Creek's turn to be frustrated.

"Where?"

Creek pointed in the general direction. "There - maybe 50 yards or so, by those boulders." The white stones were barely visible in the dark, appearing more like some eerie hump backed colossus than a grouping of rocks.

Wyatt handed Creek his coffee cup, picked a brand out of the fire to light his way and went in search of Holliday.

Doc had settled himself on the ground, the wool blanket wrapped snugly around him in hopes of warding off the chills. Here, away from the others he sought shelter and distance, his suffering to be experienced in solitude.

The need had come upon him ever so slowly at the start. Now it was fully realized and insistent, pitiless and unrelenting. Deprived of the alcohol the body craved, it turned in upon itself, unsettling the mind, laying the body open to vicious assaults and unimaginable torments.

Holliday attempted to battle the need with the greatest resource at his disposal - his mind. He figured that if he focused on one thing to the exclusion of all others he could remain in control. With that thought, he began to rock his suffering body, back and forth, back and forth, thinking of only that, concentrating only on the rhythm. For a short time it worked. For a while there was only the methodical movement. But in time the pain overwhelmed the thought, crept into the muscles, cramped the stomach, burned the nerve endings until Holliday wanted to scream. The harder he fought for control, the faster he rocked.

Wyatt was startled by the sight Creek hadn't prepared him for. Cautiously Earp walked up to Doc, rocking, back and forth, back and forth, the tempo increasing ever so slightly as Wyatt watched. A low keening moan began, so soft Earp thought it might be just the wind picking up. But it was no wind, no ghost either lurking among the boulders, no whispering between lost souls. Nor was it the rustling of leaves. The sound came from Holliday and though it was as unearthly as the sorrowing of a misplaced soul it was firmly rooted in human suffering.

Earp jammed the lit brand between two rocks, its slight illumination giving the scene an even more surreal look. Getting down onto one knee in front of Doc, he reached out laying a hand on either shoulder preventing the rocking motion. Holliday looked up into Wyatt's face. In less time than it took a heart to beat, Doc exploded, throwing off the blanket, leaping to his feet.

"Leave me alone!" he screamed. "Just leave me alone!" His outburst was as much a reaction to his own discomfort as to the embarrassment he felt at being seen. "Can't a man have some peace? Leave me the hell alone! Mind your own business!"

Doc backed away from Earp as Wyatt advanced toward him, arms extended, palms open in supplication.

Voice lower, harboring an unaccustomed touch of menace, Holliday warned, "don't come any closer."

"I want to help. What is it, Doc? What's wrong?"

Holliday seemed stunned by the question. "Are you so very blind and you call yourself my friend? Do I have to say it? Why? Why can't you just know what's the matter with your _good_ friend? Your _good_ friend the dentist turned gambler turned what? Drunk? No, let's be gentlemanly about this - alcoholic? Did I spell it out clearly enough for you, Wyatt? Did I humiliate myself enough for you? I am an alcoholic! I need a drink! I need it so badly I can't even think any more. All I know is how much I need it and here I am out in the middle of no where without a saloon in sight. I've drunk up my own supply and even the bottle Creek keeps for emergencies! I need it so badly I'd sell my soul for it. I'd even sell yours, Wyatt and that should tell you something."

Suddenly spent, Holliday's turned away from Earp, his voice now so low Wyatt had to strain to catch the words. "It hurts. My God how it hurts!"

---

Back at the fire all heads turned at the sound of Holliday's raised voice. There was some speculation as to the reason, but mostly the men knew. They knew how rough it had been on Doc the past couple days. They'd each been witness to it, the shakes, the sweating, and the grimaces of pain he'd attempted to hide with only limited success. Only Wyatt had been oblivious.

Moments passed after Doc's voice was only an echo in the night before Wyatt appeared within the lighted circle. Silently he walked over to his saddlebags and searching through them retrieved a bottle of scotch which he tucked into his coat pocket. No one said a word as Earp passed on by, disappearing into the dark.

Texas Jack broke the awkward silence by bringing up a time-honored tradition - that of telling ghost stories around a campfire. He refilled coffee cups all around then sort of hunkered down closer to the fire. The darting orange flames fanned by snippets of wind chased through and around the tall rocky spires, flickered and danced and illuminated the Texan's craggy face in a most interesting argument between light and shadow. The face seemed carved from stone, but stone strangely animated. That look of him, coupled with the deep resonant voice raised chills in Creek and McMasters even before the stories began in earnest, stories enlivened by Jack's real knowledge of the people and the area.

Most of the stories were fairly typical ghost tales, suicidal lovers and the like. Others were down right hair raising - massacres of travelers by Indians - massacre of Indians by the cavalry - all grisly and related down to the minutest detail as murdered innocents searched for their peace in a land reluctant to give up any such thing without a struggle. The men were spellbound.

"Sure wish I had a smoke right about now," Creek admitted.

"Me too!" McMasters agreed wholeheartedly.

The stories, well spun, took their minds off the weak coffee, poor food and exhaustion. It was a pleasant respite to get chills from words and not the cold wind in your face or Winchesters leveled at you from the crest of some hill. Soon low nervous laughter filtered out over the rocky terrain and to where Holliday sat, watched by Earp.

Doc was surprised and much relieved when Wyatt handed him the bottle. With fingers shaking from the need, he peeled the paper from the neck and quickly opened the top. But even in his haste to get the scotch down, even then he honored his own tradition of offering Wyatt the first sip. As always, Earp declined. "No thanks, Doc. Go ahead."

The first swallow was warm and comforting as it slid easily down his throat. The second was golden, the third pure enjoyment. After the fourth, Doc forced himself to stop, savoring the peaty smoke taste of the scotch upon his tongue, the lessening of the fever pitch of raw nerve endings he swore he could already feel. With strength of will he handed the bottle back to Wyatt, reluctantly.

"Keep it for me." The implication was clear. Keep it so I'm not tempted to drink it up.

"Ask for it when you need it," Wyatt replied as he slid the bottle back into his pocket.

The body aches eased off enough for Doc to rest back against the rocks, once again wrapped in the blanket. He asked for another drink and was given the bottle. After several more swallows, the shakes became intermittent, then stopped altogether. Holliday handed Wyatt back the whiskey, slipped down into his woolen cocoon and fell into exhausted sleep. It lasted until nearly dawn. When he woke, Wyatt was as he had last seen him - sitting with his back up against a boulder, just watching. Without Doc's having to request it, Earp handed over the scotch. Doc took one long drink, sighed and handed it back. He had the appearance of one just returned from hell, as, in a way he had, John Henry Holliday's very own private hell.

"Tell me, Wyatt," Doc asked, "not to be poking my nose where it doesn't belong, but why were you carrying whiskey? It isn't like you've suddenly become partial to it."

"No secret to that," Wyatt replied, his expression blank. "I took it off a miner at the Occidental who'd had too much to drink. Since my horse was tied right out front I slipped the bottle into my saddlebag. Too lazy to walk any farther than that I reckon. Forgot it was there until last night."

Doc's expression, unlike his friend's, plainly showed his doubt as to the honesty of Wyatt's explanation. "Has the touch of blarney about it," he commented, "but if that's your story, I accept it and say thank goodness for rowdy inebriated miners." A slow easy smile lit Doc's pale features. Much to his relief, he felt very close to human again.

---

So engrossed were the men grouped around the fire listening to Jack's tales, they had no idea night had slipped away and the sun was rising in all its majesty directly behind them. Nor did they pay any attention whatsoever to the return of their two companions. Wyatt and Doc exchanged resigned looks with Doc pointing to an empty space at the far side of the fire, indicating that Earp should take that spot. Holliday sandwiched his lanky frame in between Creek and McMasters.

Without taking his eyes off Jack's expressive face - not missing a word of the current narrative, Creek handed Doc a cup of warmed over 'coffee'. Holliday shrugged, accepted it, then reaching around McMasters, he handed the offering to Wyatt who accepted it, gladly.


End file.
